


Found You in the Dark

by warmommy



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 04:43:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13473936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warmommy/pseuds/warmommy
Summary: This is just porn.





	Found You in the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find this and a lot more at my tumblr, warmommy.tumblr.com!

He’d called for you, again. Here’s to hoping he was sober, this time. Let it never be said that you were not a loyal fucking member of the Monroe Militia. Not a lot of people even knew how to get to the lonely place where the President slept, whiling away his hours with bottles of cognac and desperate women he needed for comforting.

And if you said shit like that aloud, you’d be put up against the wall.  _Bag or no bag,_  Jeremy would ask.

Interestingly, the door was already open. Forebodingly was perhaps a better choice of words. You knocked against the solid wood, taking a half step inside. “Sir?”

It was dark, and the room was hot. You heard cocksure steps, boots thunking on polished floors, but he didn’t reach for you, yet. He closed the door, enveloping you both in darkness. 

A hand on your cheek. 

“Please tell me that you are who I think you are,” you said quietly.

He chuckled, a hopeless echo through his own throat. “I’m who you expected, but not who you think I am.”

Of course, he left no room for explanation, pulling you forth by the shoulders of your uniform and crashing your bodies together so that the disorienting dark and dizziness made you weakened. He was a fighter, always a fighter, and he fucked like he fought. Quick to disarm, quick to go in for the knock out, for the kill.

He had both hands trapped behind your back and your front shoved against a piece of heavy furniture you could not currently identify. “Y/N, you keep me waiting for too long.”

You gasped loudly, feeling his fingers tug loose your formal, regulation hairstyle. Pins hit the floor and bounced underneath the solid piece in front of you; He let go of your hands, but you understood you were absolutely not to move them, not yet.

“I was in Wilkes-Barre, sir,” you reminded him. “A hundred miles away. We don’t move as fast as we used to.”

“But we will again,” he reminded you darkly, as though you were to know something you couldn’t be privvy to. He leaned down to your neck, speaking against your hair and skin. “And then, it doesn’t matter where you are, you’ll get to me as fast as I tell you.”

“Yes, sir.” You moved through space, dragged towards what turned out to be the bed, your knees hitting soft mattress. You frowned, wishing you could just ask how he was  _doing_. It wasn’t so much you couldn’t as he wouldn’t be pleased to answer. He had you flat on your back in a heartbeat, your boots thudding to the floor on either side of his legs as he stood before you. 

The buttons of your shirt were swiftly undone by deft fingers quite used to this exercise. The second your chest was exposed to him, even in the dark, Sebastian trailed his tongue along its curves. He laughed softly against your skin.

You knew the secret, the trick behind all this, by now. It was why he asked for you by name, sent militia escort to retrieve you from wherever you were in the whole, wide Republic. A vanity project, of sorts, something that just further underscored how little he cared about this nation he had conquered. The only thing that mattered to Sebastian Monroe was  _this_.

“Bass,” you whispered, placing your fingers carefully through the dark curls of his hair. You positioned him quite strategically to give the illusion that this was his own doing and not what you had simply learned. You let your eyelashes flutter shut against his eyelids and kissed him as deeply as you could make yourself.

“Yeah,” he whispered, climbing over you on the bed, pushing you further back. He kissed just as deeply, longingly, all the while his hands tugged loose clothes, his gun clattering against a dish on the nightstand. “Baby…”

“I missed you,” you lied, convincingly enough that his movements, his race to have you undone underneath him, became even more frenzied. You moaned softly, a physical reaction to the way his lips moved on your skin. 

The thing about Sebastian Monroe wasn’t just that he really,  _really_ needed to be wanted and wanted to be needed. He had to  _own_  that need so that it may as well be branded into your skin; It didn’t matter if he was the broken one whom you duct taping back together, all of it  _belonged to him._

 _“_ Missed you, missed you,” he breathed, and you wondered if he truly believed that he did. When all clothes were shed and his hard, irrational body was pressing down on top of yours, you let these speculations go. His warm breath hit your chest in pants as he positioned himself between your legs and found the proper leverage to angle himself inside you.

There was no room for speculation when you were being fucked by the most powerful man in this corner of the continent, him deluded with his anger and paranoia into thinking that this was a perfect gift of love and longing. 

And, as you recalled earlier, he fucked like he fought. He was the undisputed champion of this bed, drawing out your submission before fucking you  _hard_ , fucking you like–oh…

Fucking you like Miles was going to take you away. 

That thought was distressing, discomfiting, and you already felt too good to let it ruin a perfectly good orgasm. You spoke in hushed whispers, the perfect combination of affection and enthusiasm. His hands glided over your body, unable to decide where they should take hold. They settled eventually, one rough at your hipbone and one curving around your throat.

You didn’t always know that you could trust him with breathplay, but, in a fucked up way, because really, you were just as fucked up as him, it only excited you more. The lack of oxygen, the rhythmic pound of your lover/General/President’s hips, the fucked up shit he was saying about killing anybody who came between him and you–

 _Damn_. You cursed, your teeth curving around your lower lip for a deep, drawn out “Fuck!”

He wouldn’t let you leave, of course, but he offered water, alcohol, food, and the space beside him in the bed. You knew better than to refuse and put to rest a long journey with your head on his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! You can find this and a lot more at my tumblr, warmommy.tumblr.com!


End file.
